Confessional
by icarus abides
Summary: She learns more about him in the darkened nights of the past two weeks than she has in the past two years. Violet/Pete


Title: Confessional

Pairing/Rating: Violet/Pete, PG-13

Spoilers: Through everything that has aired so far and some very vague possible future spoilers.

Disclaimer: Bitch, please. If I owned any of this I wouldn't be working multiple jobs.

A/N: Thanks to kelbelle for the beta! Just something I had to get out of system real quick. My brain wouldn't let me sleep until I typed up some stuff.

**Confessional**

She learns more about him in the darkened nights of two weeks than she has in two years.

The hum of fingers over skin, the soft pants of pleasure, the tangy taste of arousal; all weaving together to form some intimate illusion of safety, of trust. They set the stage for a cacophony of confessions

_... his head rests of the foot of her bed, his toes lazily poking at her hair, as he chuckles and retells the story of his thirteen-year-old self losing his virginity... she can't see his face, just the tenseness in his shoulders as he sits faced away from her on the edge of her bed and the nightmare of dying children and militants that woke him, pours from his mouth through ragged, shallow breaths... he smiles, fingers working over the muscles of her naked back as he straddles her and remembers that family holiday where his father tried to deep roast a turkey... he clings to her, breathing hot whispers into her neck, arms pulling her back into his chest as they lay in the dark and he tells her about his dead wife..._

This is a new experience for her. She listens and learns so much and tries hard to be **Violet**, and not a therapist. It is something about him, this mysteriousness. She thinks (knows) that they must have started out on opposite ends of the spectrum. A lot happens in a couple decades.

_... war, rape, marriage, death... _

A lifetime ago, they were different people. And now they lay together, still trying to figure out where they belong.

She wishes that she had the answers for him (or for her), but she doesn't yet. And so, she listens.

She's always been good at that.

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He's angry. She has never seen him so angry... no, angry is not the word. Because she can see in his eyes, those flashes when he lets down his guard, when the mask falls for just the briefest of moments. Its there and only she can recognize it.

The betrayal, the emotional agony that he hides so well from everyone else, is laid out naked just for her.

That night she cries into the pillows that still smell of him, tears burning down her face, branding her as well as any scarlet letter.

--------------

Its the blood that shocks her the most (the sudden appearance, the sheer volume, the stark contrast of crimson running a river between the beige tiles on the floor), the pain doesn't register until a few seconds later.

And suddenly, none of it matters anymore. None of it matters because she is alone in the ambulance... at the hospital... in the operating room...

Her heart breaks all over again for things that may have been, for things that should have been. She feels like a broken heart is such a cliche phrase, but that's what it feels like. That's what it feels like as her chest constricts, as the sorrow of loss sits pushes her down, and she chokes down the shuddering sobs that threaten to escape from deep down inside.

She once sat on a couch and told him that she was lonely; that she was bottom-of-her-soul lonely.

Only now does she understand that she lied.

Because this, in this moment, is the bottom-of-the-soul feeling.

And it crushes her.

-----------------

It takes him a week to come to her. A week of her rebuilding emotional walls that she had so carefully erected throughout the years (only to have him bulldoze down in a matter of weeks). She can't read him as well as she used to. Either that or he has just gotten better at hiding things.

Whatever the reason, he's reverted back into an associate, a colleague, to her. The ghost of a memory haunts the edge of her view

_... his palm cupping her cheek as he lowers his lips to hers, the other hand sliding up the length of her bared torso until it reaches her breast and it slowly squeezes, fingers dancing over her nipple as she moans into his mouth, her body responding immediately by arching her naked form into him, the sheets sliding softly as warm flesh meets flesh and the familiar rhythm begins again..._

That Pete doesn't stand in front of her right now. This is more like 'Peter', the man of mystery, the man who she had known (and yet not known) for so long before their connection.

His words are terse, not exactly angry so much as tired. And when she takes a moment to actually look at him she can clearly see the exhaustion written on his face. Her medical issues had been all the excuse she had needed to stay away from the practice, more specifically to stay away from him. So she has not been there to see the toll that the past week has taken on him and it rattles her.

His presence, however, straight out confuses her. He is not supposed to be here. In every one of the mental plans that she had laid out during her time at home (and she had made quite a few, the psychologist in her was good at working through visualizations) it had not once included him showing up on her doorstep.

He looks at a loss, eyes darting from her, to a point beyond her shoulder, to invisible points on the ground, before he finally manages to get out a soft "Hey" in a deep, sighed breath.

"Hey," she responds quietly. She doesn't know what else to say, everything seems like too much and not enough, so instead she stay silent. Her arms wrap around herself as she stands in her open doorway, him still standing quietly on the other side of the threshold.

He asks her how she is and she wants to say that she's okay. She wants to tell him that, as always, everything is fine. Because she is stronger than her transgressions. She is stronger than this, than her failure, than their loss. She wants to tell him that and she wants to make _herself _believe it too.

But the words drown beneath her tears and she is horrified to find that she can't hold them back.

She breaks in front of him, choking on the sobs that she tries to swallow, one hand reaching to steady herself on the door frame while the other wraps protectively around her stomach.

And he is there. He is strong and solid and _there_, stepping forward and shutting the door behind him (for just a moment they can forget there's a world outside). He grabs for her as their arms wrap around one another and he buries his face in her hair, murmuring his apologies over and over because he wasn't there before. She can hear the tears in his voice.

She clings to him, remembers how to breathe, and can't stop the flow of words that come from her.

Now in the darkness, in the night, she confides in him.

It frees them both.


End file.
